


The Spirit of Party Unity.

by LongestFormCensus



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, campaign era, unwarrented meanness about both candidates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 23:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12781704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LongestFormCensus/pseuds/LongestFormCensus
Summary: Lovett goes looking for either a drink, and instead finds his opposite on the Obama campaign.





	The Spirit of Party Unity.

**Author's Note:**

> Keep it secret, etc. Everybody be cool.

Lovett is muttering to himself, as he walks down one of dozens of identical hotel hallways along the campaign trail. He’s trying to get the cadence of the words right, to feel the rhythm of them tripping off the tongue, imagining them not in his voice but his candidates, the clipped professional words that he’s in charge of writing. He’s always thought better on his feet- the trip to the shitty vending machine in the elevator bank is an excuse to walk, more than it is for whatever overpriced energy drink he’s going to get out of it.

  
That’s his excuse, anyway, for why he doesn’t see the Obama bro fishing for trail mix or whatever the fuck in the tray before he’s nearly on top of him.

  
Lovett leans against the wall across the hall, and bounces one knee instead of pacing, waits for him to finish. 

  
Favreau (that’s his name, Lovett remembers, the one with the gap tooth that makes him look like an Abercrombie model trying to advertise in the flyover states) straightens and then looks directly at Lovett. 

  
“Jon Lovett, right?” he says, and he’s still standing in front of the vending machine, blocking Lovett’s view of the grand array of vitamin water and soda, “From the Clinton campaign?”

  
“That’s me,” Lovett agrees, “And you’re Jon Favreau. Illustrious Obama speechwriter.”

  
Favreau straightens further (fuck, they grow them big in whatever cul de sac Favreau crawled out of) and Lovett can see his shoulders tighten, a little.

  
“You got it,” Favreau says, “Your campaign finally got in?”

  
The words are innocuous enough, but there’s a little thrill of tension, of aggression, the same way there is whenever he has to make unsupervised small talk with any of the opposing staffers.

  
“Less than half an hour ago,” Lovett says, “I’m amazed you’re still awake, normally your campaign is asleep by now. Still working?”

  
“Just finished up,” Favreau says, and shifts his granola bar (who the fuck buys a granola bar from a vending machine, really) to his other hand, “What, are you still working? It must be two thirty in the morning.”

  
“Yeah, must be easy when your candidate speaks so slowly we’re all waiting for glaciers to crawl between words,” Lovett says, “What do you write, like, two hundred words a week? And half of that hopes and dreams, like you’re writing a fucking country song. I’d love your job, if you weren’t about to lose it.”

  
“Yeah, because ‘let’s all be realistic,’ is a really inspiring message,” Favreau shot back, “people are showing up at your conventions and feeling inspired to go home and organize their sock drawers, really cool, that’s really going to get people out knocking on doors for you.”   
Lovett sneers at him “I mean, if you want your president to still be listing his high school debate team on his resume, I guess your candidate’s fine, but forgive me for pulling for someone who can actually accomplish what she’s promising, instead of an amateur straight out of his first fucking federal job.”

  
Favreau’s jaw works, like he’s trying not to hit something. Good, Lovett thinks, suddenly hollowed out and jittery. It’s a feeling that’s cousins with stage fright, of the first time he wrote words that came out of the mouth of the next President of the United States, it’s like too much caffeine on too little food, it’s stress and another late night, and wanting to get a rise out of anyone.

  
“Super Tuesday is going to come and go and you’re going to be a footnote in this election,” Lovett says, with more venom than he intends “We’re going to slaughter you, and then you’re going to turn tail and do stump speeches for us, my words in your candidate’s mouth in Illinois, and you’re gonna help put Clinton in the Whitehouse.”

  
Favreau smiles, and it’s tight around his eyes, like he read somewhere that the key to a convincing fake smile was the wrinkles by your eyes, and set himself down the path to crow’s feet by thirty.

  
“Charming,” he says, “As enlightening as this has been, over at the Obama campaign we still think the American people, not a bunch of delegates, should be picking the nominee, and we’re actually bothering to talk to people on the ground. I’m going to go to bed now so I can be personable tomorrow morning. When you figure out that talking to people matters, please feel free to let me know by applying to a job at our Whitehouse.”

  
He shoulders Lovett on the way down the hall, knocking him into the wall.

  
“Real fucking mature!” Lovett calls after him, “What is this, high school?”

  
Following an instinct he shouldn’t, Lovett abandons his plan to shove a crumpled dollar in the vending machine and walks after Favreau instead.

  
“Hey!” he says again, “What the fuck is your problem?”

  
Favreau rounds on him, and under the deeply unflattering hotel lights, Lovett can make out the deep circles under his eyes, the handful of zits on his forehead. Lovett knows he doesn’t look any better, in sweatpants, and after months of eating shitty road food on the campaign trail, at the end of a long day on a bus stuffed with dozens of other people.

  
Favreau looks angry, burnt out, lip curling as he looks Lovett up and down.

  
“Fuck you,” he spits, “you don’t have any fucking idea-“

  
“Au contraire, you suburban asshole,” Lovett says, and jabs a finger in the middle of Favreau’s chest, “I have exactly a ‘fucking idea’ of what you’re going through, I’m just doing it better-“   
Favreau grabs his wrist, and for a split-second Lovett thinks he’s about to get punched, before Favreau’s mouth crashes into his.  

  
It’s all teeth and anger, and its fucking hot as hell, and Lovett’s wrist is still trapped between them as Favreau pushes them against a door in the middle of the hallway. Lovett Kisses back, has to crane his neck to do it, bites Favreau’s bottom lip until he tastes copper, grabs Favreau’s disgustingly defined shoulders with his other hand, and hangs on for the ride.

  
Mostly he was raring for a knockdown, drag out screaming match with someone, but he can feel Favreau’s dick twitch against his hip, and he figures this’ll work just as well. 

  
Favreau pushes them both back against the door behind them, and shoves a thigh between Lovett’s legs. Lovett doesn’t grind against it, because he’s not a fucking teenager, but he does rise up to meet him. There might be a little grinding. Maybe.

  
This is not where Lovett expected the evening to go, necessarily, but he’s half hard already, so fuck it. Not even the worst decision he’s made this week.

  
“Fuck you,” Favreau says, pulling off of Lovett’s mouth. There are imprints of Lovett’s teeth in his lip. 

  
“Not in the hallway, you fucking animal,” Lovett replies, and then, just to be a dick, jerks his hips up against Favreau’s. 

  
Favreau bites of a moan in an entirely satisfying way, and scrambles in his pocket, reaching around Lovett to shove his key card in the door behind him. Lovett glances behind him into the room, and sees a single bed, and a dark room. He turns back to Favreau as soon as he finishes knocking the door shut behind them.

  
“Jesus, you have your own rooms,” Lovett’s scrabbling at the bottom of Favreau’s shirt, rolling up the logo that looks like a fourth of July donut, like some over enthusiastic icing on a patriotic birthday cake, “what the fuck are your financial priorities, who the fuck authorized-“

  
And then Favreau bites his neck, and it’s hard enough, hot and full of teeth, to send a jolt of energy directly to Lovett’s dick and fully divert that train of thought, leaving his hands splayed across Favreau’s chest, mouth open and panting. Apparently encouraged, Favreau does it again, higher this time, under Lovett’s ear, while his hands are fumbling with his belt. His chest is pressed up against Lovett’s, pressing him into the wall, keeping him pinned as he shoves a hand into his pants.

  
“Fuck!” Lovett says, and his head hits the wall behind him with a thunk he can feel in his jaw. Favreau apparently takes this baring of a throat as an invitation, because he fixes his mouth on the column of Lovett’s throat and works it with pressure and teeth. Lovett, under normal circumstances, would be appreciative, but instead he digs his nails into Favreau’s chest and pulls them down, which makes Favreau pull off gasping.

  
“I won’t leave marks where the camera can see them if you don’t,” Lovett says.

  
There’s a flash of- it would be guilt, if Favreau gave a shit about him, but it’s really just shamed realization that he’d been letting his hindbrain maul Lovett’s neck.

  
Lovett, because he’s an asshole, uses the moment after Favreau pulls back to shove a hand down Favreau’s pants.

  
He gropes him through his underwear, can feel his dick hot and hard as fucking iron in his hand, and it twitches when Lovett gives it an experimental squeeze. Favreau drops his head back to Lovett’s neck, and groans.

  
“Yeah, that’s it- you fucking, come on-“ Lovett’s fully aware that he’s babbling, but there’s a hand around his dick, and Favreau’s breath is hot and wet against his neck, and he’s never been good at shutting up.

 

Favreau moans, and gets close enough to brace his other forearm on the wall next to Lovett’s face, which was an obnoxious attempt at intimidation Lovett would hate except that it goes straight to his dick, the fact that he has to tilt his head up to see Favreau’s face, the fact that he’s trapped against the wall.

  
As a bonus, it also means that Favreau’s long throat is right in front of Lovett’s mouth, and it doesn’t take any thought at all to sink his teeth into his throat.

 

It’s not hard enough to leave a mark, but it’s still hard to make Favreau come with a grunt all over their hands, their stomachs.

  
His hand on Lovett stutters, and slows, when he comes, which is disappointing. Lovett pushes his hand out of the way, stroking himself fast and desperate while Favreau’s still shaking and moaning above him, and tips himself over the edge shortly after.

 

He’s panting himself, and takes a moment to bask in the hate-fuck afterglow while he collects his breath. Favreau’s eyes are half shut, reddened mouth still open, still hovering above him. Lovett shoves at Favreau’s arm, and tucks himself back into his pants. 

 

“See you in Nevada,” Lovett says, and leaves before Favreau even opens his eyes.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> this whole fic was written so I could have an excuse to write a scene where Lovett offers Favs a job in his white house after Hillary wins, and I didn't even manage that. Dammit.


End file.
